Call to kill, p.13
Call to Kill, page 13
Mason was thirsty, as thirsty as a man who hadn’t drunk water in over twenty-four hours can be, but he forced himself not to drink too much of the cool water. Water made you feel hungry and food was not something he was likely to find any time soon. Additionally, the water was unlikely to be reliable. Cholera was everywhere in Yemen and the last thing he needed was a bout of the shits. He crouched down, still naked, by the edge of the watering hole and used his hands to spoon just enough water into his mouth to keep the thirst at bay. When he was done, he found a spot along the cliff where the sun’s rays had warmed the ground. He was careful to keep his skin out of the direct light, but he rested for a few minutes while his body soaked up the heat from within the rocks.
The sun was still low enough that Mason figured he could travel for another three hours that morning before the heat of the day became too much. As long as he kept the sun to his right, and continued travelling north, then he reckoned he could move another fifteen miles closer to the border. If he rested during the afternoon and sat out the hottest part of the day, then he could resume again nearer to sunset, and with any luck he could cover the last ten miles to the border that night.
He looked around for something he could use to collect water to take with him but saw that his options were scarce. There was precious little vegetation for him to use. He resigned himself to travelling without it, hoping that if this wadi was full, there was a chance that he could find more along the route. He was just about to turn back towards the ravine and return to the cave when he saw a goat.
The goat stood frozen on the rocks over his head and stared down at him until, finally, it let out a bleat that echoed all around the watering hole. Mason backed away behind the rocks, keeping his body low and hidden in the cover of the shade. Goats in Yemen did not travel alone. The beast was a sign that human life was not far away and so he needed to move fast. He had to get to higher ground where he could get a view of the watering hole. Any minute now, more goats would arrive to take their fill of the cool water and Mason had to be able to see who was tending to them. One man would be fine; with the element of surprise on his side, he could easily take him out. But if there were two or three, then things would be trickier. He found a foothold in the rocks behind him and climbed up through a crack above. In a few minutes he was on top of the cliff, from where he had a full three-sixty view of the area below.
A parade of goats was already bellowing and bleating its way down into a gorge that ran all the way to the water. Standing at the rear of the line was a solitary figure carrying a staff. Mason tried to size it up. He figured from the height that the herder was young, no older than fourteen or fifteen maybe, but his face was obscured by the traditional black flowing robes that draped him from head to toe and the large white pointy hat, similar to a witch’s hat, that Yemeni herders often wore to keep the hot sun off their heads. The main thing was that the boy seemed to be alone and oblivious to Mason’s presence.
He decided to wait for the right moment, continuing to watch from his hiding place until the last of the goats had disappeared into the gorge and the herder had followed behind, banging his stick, encouraging the flock into the water. Seizing his chance, Mason leapt from behind the rocks and scampered silently, keeping out of sight, all the way to the entrance to the gorge. He peeked inside and saw that the back of the herder was turned, so dropping down behind him in one move, he stepped up behind the boy, wrapped his arm tightly around his neck and used his superior bodyweight to lever him to the floor.
As the hat went flying, Mason shifted his naked body around and got on top of his captive, raising a fist to administer a cautionary blow. It was then that Mason realised he had made a glaring error. When he looked down he saw that the herder was not a teenage shepherd as he had assumed but rather a teenage shepherdess. A young Yemeni girl looked back up at him in abject fear and confusion. Until that moment in her life, she had never seen a white man, nor indeed, for that matter, had she ever seen a naked man. Confronted with both, simultaneously sitting on top of her chest and preparing to punch her, she duly fainted.
Mason looked at the unconscious girl and sighed. A new problem for him to deal with. He couldn’t let her go because she would return to the village and give him away. No matter what reassurances she would offer him that she wouldn’t, there was no way he could trust her. The easiest option, and the option that he knew many others in his situation would take, was to kill her. But when he looked at the girl’s face, he knew that killing her wasn’t something he wanted to live with. He had made it this far in his career without ever killing a non-combatant and he wasn’t going to start now. He figured he could tie her up and leave her, but if the girl’s family came to look for her in the next two or three hours, that didn’t give him enough time to make it safely to the border. There was only one thing to do – he had to take her with him.
First, a few adjustments would have to be made. With all due respect for the girl’s modesty, Mason felt she needed to share her clothes. He tore off the hem of her dress and ripped it into two pieces, which he tied back together as a thong, deciding that his own modesty was probably more important than hers in the circumstances. He removed her hat, and by squashing it enough, managed to reshape it to fit his own head in the style of an old cowboy hat. Happy his head and cock were covered, he searched the girl thoroughly, discovering an old Nokia phone (with no reception), a goatskin water bottle (from which he took a sip) and a cloth bag that contained nothing but a few coloured stones. He pocketed the phone, returned the bottle and the bag to her pocket and then splashed the girl’s face with a handful of water.
She snapped back awake, momentarily focusing on Mason in his bizarre outfit before she vomited on to the rocky floor. She wiped her mouth and tried to move away but Mason grabbed a rough hold of her. He looked straight at her and shook his head.
‘Do what I say or you will die. Do you understand?’ he said.
The girl nodded. Mason needn’t have worried because not only was she terrified of him, but she was even more terrified of what her father and brothers would do to her if they discovered that she was alone with a man. The punishment that would follow such a crime was far worse than anything Mason could throw at her.
Mason studied her face. He reckoned she was maybe a year younger than his own daughter in Hereford. Joanna would be worried about him by now, wondering if he was still alive, probably glued to the TV news or waiting by the phone for a text from him. He had always promised her that he would come home no matter what and it was a promise he intended to keep.
He took the Yemeni girl by the wrist and dragged her back around the edge of the watering hole, up the gorge and through the ravine to the cave where he had hidden his motorcycle. He pulled the bike out from its hiding place and motioned for the girl to climb on board. When she resisted for a moment, he tugged her robes to show her that he would force her to get on if needed. There was nothing to gain from frightening her any more than he had to, but he needed her to comply. She was a liability and he was taking a risk.
He kickstarted the bike and together they resumed the journey north, carefully picking a route between the ravines and crevasses that split the desert floor. They made slow but solid progress as the sun rose behind them to the east. Mason kept a close eye on their mileage, the whole time imagining their position on the map, sure to avoid any human settlement or main roads where he might encounter trouble. When they were within five miles of the Saudi border, Mason felt the girl’s phone buzz in his pocket.
Mason stopped the bike and took out the old Nokia. It had made a connection with a phone mast and buzzed to indicate that it had come back into range. His first thought was to dial the camp in Hereford, but a recorded message informed him that the phone did not allow for international calls. Next he called the number for the Ops room in Sana’a which he had memorised for just such an emergency. When the number rang, he felt a wave of relief pass through his whole body.
‘Hello?’ He recognised the voice instantly.
‘Hopkins? It’s Mace.’
Peter Hopkins went silent for a moment but once it sunk in that he was not having some sort of auditory hallucination, he became giddy with excitement. He could barely contain himself. All at once, he let out a blend of relief, joy, awe and admiration. Of course Matt Mason had escaped. He was the hardest nut in the whole army. Although that was easier to say after Matt Mason had escaped. Five minutes ago, he’d been of a very different opinion, namely that Matt Mason was dead.
‘Zero, this is call sign Bravo One, Matthew Mason.’ Mason knew the drill and was keen to move things forward.
Peter Hopkins struggled for the words. He knew the voice on the other end of the line but Mason’s tone reminded him that there was a protocol. He had to ask Mason a question that only he would know.
‘Roger that Bravo One. Confirming proof of life: what’s your favourite food, Mace?’ he asked the question with a grin already spreading across his face.
‘Fucking pizza, mate. Every time.’
‘With extra pepperoni! Fuck the fucking fuck, you’re alive. You beauty!’ Hopkins began waving manically to everyone else in the Ops room. Pointing to the receiver, mouthing ‘it’s Mace’ over and over. ‘It’s good to hear your voice, mate,’ he said. ‘The boys will go mad.’
‘They all good, mate?’
Hopkins was surprised all over again. Mason was behind enemy lines, fatigued, hungry, exposed and God knows what else but still his first thought was for the men in his team.
‘Jack, Briggsy? How’s Andy doing, mate?’
‘Um…’ Hopkins realised that his hesitation was a mistake. Protocol was not to relay information that was not pertinent to the task in hand, which was simply to get Mason out from wherever he was.
‘Mace, what’s your location, give as much information as you have—’
‘Fuck that, mate,’ Mason interrupted. ‘How’s Andy?’ Mace felt Hopkins hesitate. He knew the Rupert couldn’t lie. He didn’t need to because Mason already knew what he was about to say next.
‘Andy didn’t make it, Mace. I’m sorry.’
The line went quiet for what seemed like an eternity. On the other end of the call, Matt Mason felt a crushing weight of grief and responsibility land squarely on his shoulders as he realised that, for the first time in his career, he had lost a soldier under his command. He felt sick with guilt. The young Scouser with so much potential had served his country and given his life in the service of others. Mason quickly felt an anger replace the guilt, a fury that shot out in search of a target like an Exocet missile, and what it zeroed in on was Ruak Shahlai. The Iranian general had done this. Mason had had the chance to take him out back in Sana’a but he had missed if and now Andy was dead.
‘Mace?’
He heard Hopkins’ voice again on the line. Mason thought about hanging up. He thought about getting back on the bike, turning it around and not stopping again until he reached Sa’dah. He thought about finding Shahlai and putting a bullet in the bastard’s head. The satisfaction of killing the man who had killed Andy would make everything feel better. It would help to control the rage and the sadness that he now felt. But Matt Mason caught himself. He had learned over the years to control such urges. Going it alone into the heart of the enemy’s territory was for unbelievable movie heroes and suicidal idiots. He would get his revenge on Shahlai, but he would do it properly. He would do it with the support of his team and the Regiment. The first thing he had to do was get back to base, regroup and then, with all the tools at his command, come back and avenge Andy’s death.
‘Mate,’ he said calmly into the phone. ‘I’m four miles south of Saudi. I want extraction ASAP.’
‘We can ping the phone location, Mace. Stand by.’
Mason held the phone aloft while the team in the Ops room used its signal to triangulate his location. He was suddenly aware of the young Yemeni girl watching him. Now that the extraction team had been alerted, he no longer needed to keep her there.
‘I need to keep this,’ he said to her, holding up the phone.
The girl studied the curious white man who had taken her captive and stood in front of her speaking in her own tongue. His body was muscular but thin, the skin burned red by the sun, his face haggard and his beard patchy. Everything about him was foreign and unfamiliar except for one thing. She saw a deep sadness in his eyes that she recognised, because she had seen that same sadness many times before.
She nodded to indicate that he could keep the phone.
‘Can you ride a bike?’ he asked, offering her the key.
She shook her head and simply pointed back in the direction that they had come. Her herd was five miles away, through the desert, on foot. That would be a challenge for many but not for her. She smiled gently and waved to reassure Mason that she would be okay. Then she pointed to her hat. She could not return without it.
Mason hesitated for a moment before he removed the hat and handed it over. She punched out the top to return the hat’s shape before she placed it carefully on her head and, without a word, turned and left. Mason watched her walk away, following along the line of tyre tracks in the sand that led back to her herd and her life.
‘Mace?’ Peter Hopkins was on the line again. ‘Stay where you are. The cavalry will be there in six minutes, mate. Looking forward to having you back.’
Twenty-Three
Hereford, England
Outside of Joanna Mason’s bedroom window, the Hereford countryside glistened while the morning rain subsided and the sun finally put in an appearance. Not that she had any interest in going outside that day—her hair was a state, she had a spot on her chin and she was still dressed in her pyjamas. She lay on her bed and checked her phone for the umpteenth time, scrolling down to her father’s name and studying the half-dozen messages that she had sent him. Every one had a single tick next to it. Her dad hadn’t switched his phone on now for nearly six days.
Growing up in Hereford as the daughter of a special forces soldier was not particularly unusual. The barracks were located ten miles outside of town and most serving soldiers’ families lived in camp and sent their kids to local schools. The town itself was also where the majority of SAS men moved to once their active service was over, so the kids you met at school were as often as not just like you; born to fathers who came and went without notice and who never talked about where they’d been or what they’d done.
Joanna had actually been born in Aldershot when Mason was still with the Parachute Regiment. They had lived on the base briefly before the family moved to Hereford when he was selected for the SAS. How different everything was back in those days when the house had been full of laughter and fun. She remembered now how the radio used to always be on and how her mum and dad had danced together in the kitchen. It was years since she’d heard the old radio now. Dad was always away and on the rare occasions when he came back, Mum would go out dancing with Aunty Sheila.
When her father had told her was leaving again, she’d begged him, as she always did, to tell her where he was being posted, but Mason had said nothing more than ‘the Horn of Africa’. She’d been instantly jealous, imagining the huge superyachts that sailed on the warm crystal waters off the coast of Djibouti and Eritrea. Her dream was to one day skipper such a boat, taking wealthy clients on exclusive charters to the most beautiful places on earth, while she pocketed the generous salary on offer. Some of the older kids from the sailing club in Newport who’d gone on to work the circuit talked of tips in the thousands of dollars. What could be better than getting rich while doing the thing you loved most?
And she did love the sea. Every Saturday and Sunday since she was twelve years old, come rain or shine, Joanna made the fifty-mile trip south to the Welsh coast to sail. She had graduated from the small, single-crew Toppers, in which she’d won medals and championships all over the country, to crewing on larger racing yachts. The next step was to get a place at naval college in Devon and serve as her dad had, and then maybe one day, when she was older, to return to the private sector and cash in. Joanna Mason was a young woman who was in no doubt about what she wanted to do with her life.
She jumped when the phone lit up and started buzzing in her hand, but it was only her best friend, Tilly. Joanna guessed that she was calling to relay news from her latest rendezvous with Mark Jacobson the night before. Joanna had left them to it in the pub and gone home early. She wanted to get up first thing to study, as their exams were starting the following week.
‘Walk of shame?’ she asked without even saying hello.
‘Bitch please,’ Tilly replied before she changed her tone and continued. ‘Actually, yeah.’
Joanna laughed at how predictable her mate was. And how unstoppable. She always got exactly what she wanted without ever showing it. She’d probably get straight As in her exams without doing any work.
‘You heard from your dad yet?’ Tilly asked.
‘No. Hasn’t been online since Tuesday.’ Joanna twirled her long blonde hair around her finger and tucked it into her mouth, aimlessly biting down on her split ends.
